Hello, You Must Be Going

I have absolutely no interest in what lies in peices at the base of the fireplace. I am sure it is a gore-fest. No thanks.  I will remain in the darkened kitchen.  The boys can scoop up the carcas in the dark with their x-ray glasses on. 

Kate and I clink our beer glasses. The deed is done. The curtain has fallen on the drama.  The beast has been slayed.

Karl appears in the kitchen, rips a few papertowels off the roll and says a few patronizing words.  He returns to Bo and the deceased and we roll our eyes.

And then Karl turns into a 10 year old. Holding the dead bat in a wad of paper towels, he re-enters the kitchen, the shit-eating grin having returned to his face.

"Look what I have!" he says, moving into the kitchen and in our direction.

We squeal and turn our backs. If I can't see it, it isn't there, right? 

He's right behind us, threatening to put it on some part of our persons. I am sure it is just to see the eternally cool girls go completely ballistic, squeal like toddlers and do the Get It Off Me dance.

Not on my watch.

I pick up the cast iron skillet from the sink and spin around.  In the most deadly serious tone I can muster I threaten to brain Karl with the skillet in such a way that his mother will cry herself to sleep at night when she sees what I've done to him. 

Shit-eating grin still affixed to his face, he leaves the kitchen through the back door, trots down the steps and places the cadaver in the trash can. I am sure it will smell like a bed of roses by trash day.

He returns with a pitcher of beer.

"What do we have for food around here?" he asks as he pours another round. (Bo is polishing his gun.) 

"I have one Bubba burger, no roll. And some banana chips." Read that, "Nothing. So don't get any ideas about Betty and Wilma creating a feast for Fred and Barney just becasue they hunted down the brontosaurus."

Kate says, "I have hummus and crackers." 

Karl snarks, "I was just thinking I'd love some hummus and crackers!" 

And I was just thinking, "Don't put the gun away so quickly, Bo. I think I may eventually want to blow my brains out."

We eat hummus. We drink beer. Kate discovers she also has a jar of peanuts in her purse. (What?) Karl discovers Jack's home-infused lime-cilantro tequila and some glasses.

It's turned into a fraternity party.  And it is only 8 pm on a Friday night.

Show Time

Bo has a beer. Karl has a beer. Kate and I each have a beer.  And Kate and I set about examining all the gear Bo has brought with him for his premeditated rodent murder.

A gun. A real gun. It is heavy. Like a brick.

A flashlight. Will we be shooting long?  Will it be dark by the time we hunt it down?

As mason jar full of little round coppery pellets.  A whole mason jar. There must be 5,000 pellets. How lousy a shot is he?

Karl takes Bo to look for the bat. Thankfully it is still clinging to the stone corner of the fireplace, though Trinket is long gone, having grown bored with the lack of chase.

They return to the table to prepare for battle.

While they are deeply engrossed in planning the attack, Kate and I duck into the kitchen and text Charlotte.

"This is becoming quite a production."

"Did he bring Becky?"

He'd bring a Becky to kill a bat? She must be a beauty.

"No he brought someone named Bo. Who brought a gun."

"Oh."

And then "Let me know what happens with that."  As if to say, let me know if my house is still standing or looks like war-torn Berlin when it's over.  I am tempted to go pound the For Sale sign into the lawn now.

According to Karl and Bo we need to turn off the lights.

Oh do we now?

I'd turned on only one. I turn it off.

"How about the candles?" I ask.

"No!" they reply. They evidently like the mood lighting.

Figures.

They walk into the living room. They are wearing goggles. They look ridiculous.

Karl has the flashlight. It is a green light. The bat can't see the light but we can.

Hello, the bat can't see his own feet.  Kate and I keep going into the kitchen to giggle about how serious an undertaking this has become. But we go along with the high drama of it all.

Karl shines the light. Bo takes aim.

He fires off 7, 8, 9 shots. I am cowering in the kitchen with Kate, certain that the stuffing from the sofa is floating gently to the ground after the shoot out.

Then Karl says, "I think you got him. Let me get a towel." 

And with that, Kate and I are shreiking again.

Bat Man and Robin?

I fill the pitcher again. I am anxious to get things rolling but I think I need to appease the Gods of Have No Right To Ask For A Favor This Heinous first.

Karl and his shit-eating grin take a seat wedged between me and Kate on the step. It is clear that he feels like a celebrity. A superhero. The BMOC.

Karl tells us that this was his second distress call about a bat today.  The first Mayday came from a lesbian he knows in the neighborhood. He told her she was on her own.  Kate and I evidently have much more appeal  as non-lesbians, not that anyone's sexual preferences are up for discussion.

Karl wants to see the bat.  I volunteer to show Karl the cat/bat demonstration.

We walk in tiptoeing like Elmer Fudd hunting wabbits. We turn the corner. Trinket is posted on a chair looking intense.

Not wanting to seem like a nut I don't actually engage Trinket in conversation this time. Instead I look where she is looking...staring down The Beast.  At the stone fireplace surround.  At first I see nothing and I think I am going to have to Dr. Doolittle my way through this. Then I discern a  twitch. The bat is clinging to the stone corner of the fireplace. I point it out to Karl.  Somehow without shrieking.

"Eeeww, " he says. "Yep, there he is."  And then after a moment, "What's in his mouth?"

With these words I am on the run again.  One flying rodent is enough. If it has now caught itself another I may just have a stroke.

Karl stops me. "Oh, it's nothing to be worried about. It just looks like he caught something. He's just covered in dust balls."

Clearly, while in her pursuit of the bat, Trinket has mopped under all of Charlotte's beds with it.

Still, I am beginning to pit out again. I suggest more beer.  Like a moth to a flame, Karl follows me out.

We join Kate again. She's refilled the pitcher. "So,  Karl. No butterfly net. You've called Bo and his gun. What does it shoot? The bat IS inside the house."

I am picturing a shotgun.   "Yes, Karl. Remember that this is my sister's house. Not a hunting blind."

"Well I fix everything in the house anyway so if something doesn't go exactly as planned, or is shot to smithereens, I can fix it right up."

Oh good. We'll never get rid of him. I am beginning to feel nice and warm inside toward the bat. Maybe we should let it stay? I am sure Charlotte would prefer that her house not be reduced to splinters. I suppose I could call her if it turns into the OK Corral.  As I run down the street screaming, that is.

A car pulls up. A mild-mannered, bookish-looking man steps out. The Bat Whisperer?  An exterminator?  The Constable coming to haul me away in handcuffs for violating the noise ordinance?

No. It's Bo.

And he indeed has a gun.

Bat Man - The Beginning

We click on the first site. I am almost breathing normally now.

Kate reads to me. "Getting rid of a bat is very easy."

That's easy for you to say.

"You should try to get rid of the bat as quickly as possible."

Like I'd keep it around for the entertainment value.  And so much for that anyway. The bat has been hanging out with us for about an hour already.  Grubby little freeloading varmint.

"Bats pose a particular threat to your household pets as they are filthy.  They have been known to carry lice and ticks and fleas and are often diseased.  They may carry rabies and could infect your pet if one is bitten by a bat."

Joy.

"Cat's are especially at risk because they are intrigued by bats in flight and will hunt them, often catching them in mid-flight."

No shit, Sherlock.

"Once a bat is discovered, carefully place a tea towel over it. Pick it up gently and take it outside, talking to it softly to calm it."

Calm IT?!  Calm ME!

Once outside, place it on the ground and set it free. Step away from the bat to remove yourself from its path. It will not retaliate. It is grateful to have been released."

Seriously? Who wrote this? An Animal Psychologist? 

"Eff that, " Kate says. "Where is this Karl person?"

And as if summoned on demand, Karl pulls up to the house in his truck.  We literally squeal with delight.

Karl saunters up to the top of the stairs to say hello, shit-eating grin and all. I introduce Kate.

"So, Karl," she says. "Where's your butterfly net?"

"Oh, I'm not using a butterfly net," gloats Karl. "I have a secret weapon. I called Bo."

"So Bo has a butterfly net?" Kate jabs.  I am laughing out loud on the inside (where it counts) at the image. Two grown men running around with a butterfly net in pursuit of the elusive bat. I imagine lamps crashing and chandeliers swining and much brick-a-brack on the floor in smitereens. Not to mention the swearing.

"Oh no. No butterfly net," Karl responds. "He has a gun."

A gun?  Really?  The bat's body is as big as my thumb.  It's going to be a long night.

Same Bat Channel

I fill the pitcher. Kate and I sit at the top of the porch steps. I tell her the latest developments. She says there must be 1,000 ideas on the Internet that will give us some clue how to rid ourselves of this little bat problem. After the first pint, she'll get her iPad from the car and we'll Google a few ideas we can live with.

We sit. We sip. We wait for Karl.

And occasionally I panic.

What if the bat has gone into hiding? What if we can't find it ? What if Karl gets here, makes a sweep of the house, finds nothing, and decides he has more important things to do? Could we even begin to close our eyes to sleep knowing that there is a winged beast, who is very likely mad as hell and feeling vengeful, lurking in the many dark shadows of Charlotte and Jack's cottage?

So every few sips, I go on a recon mission. I creep into the house quietly, hoping to sneak up on the bat without sending it sailing all over the room in a flight of pure panic.

Each time, I find Trinket perched somewhere looking as though she is on high alert.

Trinket and I are on the same wave length. We get each other. I talk. She talks. I swear she knows what I say. What I think.

I can't see the bat when I come in and scan the room. I ask Trinket for her expert help. (After all she found it in the first place.)

"Where is it, Trink?"

Each time, she jumps down from her perch and as she lands, the bat scrambles from its hiding place. Unfortunately, it also begins to fly shortly afterwards.

Trinket is evidently tracking the little SOB. And I am apparently incapable of doing much more than run around the room shreiking with the maturity of a six year old.

I dash out another door and onto another section of the porch. I circumnavigate the house and rejoin Kate on the top step. I tell her that the good news is that as long as there is Trinket, we'll find the damn bat.

But I am a little scared for Trinket. Where the hell is Karl?

Kate goes to the car and returns with her iPad. She starts a Google search - get bat out of house- and 2 billion sites are returned.

OK. Maybe now we'll get somewhere. Karl or no Karl

Same Bat Time

The next few minutes are, in my mind, not unlike a silent film. The ones that are just a little too fast. Where the characters run around and change directions, and move so fast you can't tell what they are doing.

Me and my broom and my iPhone were a lot like one of those films. But I was anything but silent. 

I ran in every direction as the bat flew, again, in every direction. I was running into things, up and down the stairs, blindly around the room, attempting to get away from the bat, who was flying by sonar, of course, and not take my eyes off of it. And all the while I was screaming. One long, high-pitched Oooooooohhhhhmyyyyyyyyyyyggaaaaaaaawwwwwdditsflyyyyyyyyyyyiiiingriiiiiiiiiightaaaaaaattttmeeeee!

Charlotte is telling me to put a pair of underwear on my head.  I am baffled at first but she explains that a pair of panties would keep my hair from flying in all directions.  God only knows I'd be found dead on the scene if the blind bat flew into my Big Hair and got tangled there. I was sure I was having a stroke as it was.

I refrain from stopping to find a pair of panties to jam on my head (I don't have a free hand, anyway) but I tell Charlotte that I'd heard that if you encounter a flying bat, you are supposed to whistle. The whistle somehow scrambles their radar and they drop to the ground. If I could do that, I swear I'd beat the little bastard to death with the broom so fast his little ugly head would swim.

I try it.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to whistle under these circumstances?  I had a better chance of singing every verse of the Battle Hymn of the Republic.

Charlotte is thinking fast though. (It must be very compelling to hear your sister screeching as if being murdered while a filthy flying rodent chases her around your house.) She has asked her husband, who is listening to the drama unfold from the driver's seat, to call some people. His brother, who lives a few blocks away, and Karl, who has done all the renovations on this house.

He gets Karl on the phone. He's on his way. Charlotte warns me that Karl will want to stay and have a beer with me and Kate when the job is done.

I tell her I don't care if he wants ten beers, so long as he gets rid of the bat.

Seriously. At this point, I'd part with a kidney if he wanted one.

But knowing that Karl was on his way in the Bat Mobile, I am calmer. Trinket is hiding under the bed and won't come out. Keeping an eye on the bat, who is climbing on things now, instead of flying, I get my glass, a glass for Kate, and the pitcher and head outside to wait in relative peace.

Kate calls and is nearby but lost. I walk out to the street to great her.

And not suddenly, this all seems hilarious.

Bats In My Belfry

It is Kate. I answer and immediately begin screeching very high pitched run on sentences at eardrum breaking decibels into the phone. I am breathing hard when I am done. I need a paper bag.

Kate says, "I didn't catch any of that."

I am heaving now. I slowly repeat most of  what I screeched moments before, only this time, two words at a time. And as an alto.

Then she screeches. But only for a moment. She needs directions. My brain is scrambled from adrenaline. I fumble through the names of streets and lefts and rights and landmarks and make her turn around in error about three times.  I am not great with directions on a good day and this is not a good day.  I am no longer a walking talking adult person, I am a two year old curled up on a dining chair, near the laundry room door. I have made myself as small as humanly possible. The fetal position actually with one hand out to hold my iPhone to my ear. (We'll call it the iPhetal position.)  I will not take my eyes off the bat, and it won't take its eyes off me.  I have no idea where the cat has scampered off to. My shrieking surely have her a headache and took all the fun out of catching the bat mid-flight. I am frozen in place.

Kate has a few minutes of driving to do and she lets me go to attend to the bat. It is her way of kindly telling me, "I'll ask a stranger for directions, thank you."  I call Charlotte for moral support. She's dropping her kid off at college and I need the moral support. Go figure.

Charlotte answers on one ring. "Hello -ho!" she says brightly.

I muster all the calm in my soul and say, "Ok,FYI,  I am washing the towels from your bathroom. And um, Momma's having a heart attack because there is a bat in your house."

She screams. I scream. She's confused. She thinks I am in her regular house.

"No," I say. "I am at the cottage! And Kate is coming up because she thinks her husband is an asshole, at least for tonight and she's coming to keep me company. And Trinket caught a bat."

We go back and forth asking and answering - and screaming to be honest - all the while with me in the iPhetal position and not taking my eye off the bat. Charlotte tells me where the broom is. I get it in my sights. I am not moving and drawing attention to myself without a really good reason.

And then I tell her I think the bat might be dead. Good Kitty!  You killed the bat!  Hooray.

But as soon as these thoughts cross the surface of my brain, I see it twitch. It has been laying there, stunned, flat on the floor with its wings outstretched since I noticed it. And it is now twitching. It gets one wing under itself. And then the other.

I slowly make my move for the broom.  The bat is preparing for takeoff.

Bat Out of Hell

I call Scott and tell him Kate will be joining me for the evening. He's glad. He hates the idea of me out at the cottage alone. And he'd intended to join me Friday night at first. That is until his younger daughter made plans to attend a party.  And plans for him to drive. A bunch of kids. Both ways. He'd have to drop her off at his sister's so she can work the next day before leaving. He's vowed to pry her teenaged body from the bed at the earliest possible hour and carry her to the car in her pajamas if necessary.  Teenagers and their social lives have a way of ruling nights with their commitments. It is only fitting that we intrude on their mornings as payback.

I light a few candles to get rid of the musty smell. The house is vacant for long stretches of time. I open the windows and get it smelling like some kind of Yankee Candle scent.  In not time it is Martha Stewart perfect, natch. Like Charlotte would have it any other way.

I pick out clothes to put on after my shower and then take my stuff into the bathroom. As I shut the door, I notice three towels hanging on hooks from Charlotte and Jack's last visit. I toss them on the floor in the hall and make a note to throw them into the wash when I am through with my shower. 

I shower. I dress. I put some fabulous stuff in my wildly curly hair and let it be untamed. Kate and I will be sitting having beers on the porch. I need not tame its volume for the night. It can take on epic proportions. I throw in the wash, pull the knob and get ready to enjoy the evening. I pour a cold beer and head out onto the porch. Trinket is exploring the place and I make sure I close the door behind me so she can't escape into the wild. I'd never catch her if she did and she'd never return to a life of confinement on her own. I'd be heart broken.

I sit on the sofa on the porch and wait for Kate's call. She should be here soon. And then suddenly I hear Trinket meowing. I have been sitting for less than a minute!

Poor baby. She does this when she can't find me.  Like in the middle of the night when her little chickpea brain can't comprehend that she is the one who has been darting all over the house and she can't find anyone.  No one else has moved. We are all in our beds. But still she has to meow to find us. I usually air kiss a few times and she comes running in the night. It is like a silly little feline game of Marco Polo. 

I get up from my seat and walk back into the house, talking to Trinket as though she can understand me. (I am sure the Miller's across the street already think I'm nuts. I just keep on giving them more and more proof...) 

"Oh, Puss, I'm sorry!  I didn't mean to give you the Lonelies!  I should know better than to bring you all the way out here and leave you by yourself! Bad Mommy."

I open the door from the porch into the dining area and I can see her on the other side of the open door off to the left. She is sitting. Quite calmly sitting. But intently looking at something with one paw raised. Ready to strike.

"What do you have there, Putty?"  I bend slightly to get a look. It looks like a piece of black fabric.  Ragged on the edges. Like a men's dark dress sock with the heel out. 

Must be a fascinating sock. She's not looking up. 

And that is when I notice that the "sock" has started to move. And as I step away to the left and close the door, I can see what it is that Trinket has cornered. And a look of horror spreads across my face and I stifle a Horror Movie Scream.

It is a stunned, fully extended, trying recover from the shock, black bat.

And at that moment my phone begins to ring in my hand.

Plans B, C and D

The return to work is painful. Somehow when you mentally prepare for only two days, the two days seem to be jammed end to end with nothing but misery.  Short weeks have a way of cooking up and serving a heaping, steaming plate of crap.

The end of the first day back leaves me with a brimming breifcase of busy work and I decide to work from home the next day. I am visiting Charlotte and Jack tonight to bid farewell to my dear Godson, their middle son, Gray, who is leaving for college the following day.  I will be out too late, have more wine than I should and be in no mood to endure office nonsense up close. I can swear all I want in my livingroom.

Besides, it is Labor Day Weekend.  I'd originally thought that I'd get up early on Friday, drive to Scott's house at the shore, set up camp long before rush hour and beat the unGodly traffic in that direction at the end of the day. There is nothing I hate more than joining all of humanity in our collective impatience and sitting for hours in horrific traffic.

But I've changed my mind, because Scott's daughter, Abby, is getting a puppy.

Yes, a puppy.

And Scott needs another dog in the house like he needs an aneurysm.

But when she was out at the amusement park near Charlotte and Jack's cottage with her boyfriend, they'd seen a sign for Yorkie puppies and had decided to get one. A girl. A girl they are naming Cocoa.

So instead of bombing shoreward bound in the dawn's early light on Friday, I will be sitting at my desk at home until we dismiss early at 3. And shortly thereafter, I've arranged to go back to the darling cottage that Charlotte and Jack own, with Trinket in tow, to spend the evening in quiet solitude.  Saturday morning, Scott and the kids will join me and spend the night. The puppy can be adopted on Sunday and while they are going to pick her up a mere 10 miles away, I will be driving home with my pal Trinket, dropping her off at home only to bomb sans the usual traffic to Scott's house to enjoy the remainder of the weekend in the traditional manner.

All during the day, I am taking small two minute breaks to prepare to leave. A bag in the car. Cat provisions packed. A separate bag for work Tuesday.  I am in the car and on the road at 3:05.  Charlotte and Jack and two of their boys are on the road, too. Off to drop yet another wonderful young man off at college to become a more wonderful, refined version of his fabulous self.

I am there well before dark (there is no traffic in this direction. Ever.) I unpack the car and get the cat settled. She loves it here. Birds and squirrels and lots of windows. I get myself organized and make the beds for Scott and the kids. Oddly, Trinket  has made a beeline to the dark spot beneath the staircase behind the toilet in the powder room.  I have no idea why.

I pour myself a nice beer and post a check in to Facebook.  "Welcoming the long weekend with a nice IPA." I also send Kate a message telling her that I wish she were with me. I have beer and time alone and we'd have so much fun. She's never been to the cottage. I would love to show her around. Besides, she seriously lacks alone adult time these days.

Through a series of texts we talk about her joining me. She has other plans but she is not jazzed about them. Her husband is taking their boys somewhere and she wants to get out of the house, not sit quietly with some other neighbor having a civilized glass of wine.

And then she calls me. Her husband was cranky when he'd come home and she'd like to join me. Vanish for  a while. Maybe avoid a huge fight later. She asks if I am serious about her joining me. Of course I am.  Scott and the kids will be there mid morning. She can be on the road and back home before anyone knows she's gone (sadly). She says she's glad, because she's already stuffed the hummus and crackers and some nuts she was going to serve into a bag and has run out the door. She's on the road.  Can I tell her where she's going?

I tell her where to exit the Turnpike and tell her to call me when she does. I'll direct her in from their. She'll love it.

I am going to take a quick shower, pour us a pitcher and wait for her call. What a fun night we're going to have. 

Here We Go Again

In the meantime, there is much drama developing in the ongoing saga of my kitchen renovation, now known the world over as Hell's Kitchen.

I'd finally gotten Wally's attention. He'd come back to paint the door, and remove randomly flung blobs of this and that, turn a cabinet door or two around, pushed the oven into place, yadda yadda yadda.

One night a week or two back, I was peeling shrimp at my new sink.  I was admiring the new sink's depth, and looking forward to using my zippy new garbage disposal (I've never had one before. I want to throw everything in there) and noticing the difference it makes to have a sink that has no edge at the top to catch all the gunk as you wipe the crumbs and goo from the countertops into the sink.  And I was noticing how nice it is to finally have the sink centered under the windows and dead center of the counter for the first time. To me it was bad feng shui to have the sink two inches to the right. It felt all wrong.  No amount of chanting and incense could rid me of the off kilter feeling. For 14 years.

And then I remembered that Wally had also centered the ridiculously expensive overhead lighting (conveniently bundled with the completely unnecessary electrical outlet feature that I will never use) I decide to flick on the light for the first time, just as the phone rings. It is Scott.

I grab the phone and return to the sink to turn off the water to talk.

And then I notice it. The tiles look crooked. Like some corners are sticking out. Like they are being forced from the wall by some unseen thing poking them from behind. I think about Bad Ronald from that creepy 70s movie. (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0071186/plotsummary)

I gasp and mention it to Scott. I had not noticed it before. Was the wall moving them?

He tells me he'd flicked on the light the week before and had noticed it, but had not said anything since he was sure I'd noticed myself and had given Wally a run for his money.

No, I told him. I hadn't. What should I do?

Flash forward.

I am convinced that nothing can be done. Scott thinks I should not let it go. A week goes by. I have asked for a million opinions. I have gotten a wide variety of answers. I have just gotten my final bill from Wally. I hesitate to pay it. Scott suggests I take some pictures and show Charlotte. She'll know what to do. When it comes to renovations, I am  a rookie. She is a grizzled veteran.

I take a couple of telling pics. I email them to her. And my phone immediately ring-a-ding-dings. "OMG. E-mail these to Wally immediately!"

So I do. And to give my e-mail a little clout, I include Charlotte's comments, eliminating any potential for him to play one sister against the other. He will know when he reads the message that Charlotte has seen the craftsmanship and has encouraged me to take issue. First points on the board go to me.

I craft a very carefully worded e-mail. It makes its point. Scott says I may as well have just kicked Wally in the nuts. Not my intention, but I did want him to know that I have come to expect better work from his company. He'd never walk away from my sister's backsplash with it looking like a toddler did it. I invite him to come have a look. I leave him a key, since he assumed he'd finished and returned the one he'd had all effing summer.

Finally, I now have an answer. He looked at the pictures and thinks the wall is bowed (it is not.) And what he does not know from the pictures is that they are from 3 different spots on the back wall. If it is "bowed" it would have to be bowed in 3 places...which means that it would be more accurate to say that it is "wavy."

By now, Wally has been to the house. He's viewed the tiles and seen the shadows they cast. He agrees that they are not flat.

He tells me the wall is bowed in three places and he'd like to remove the tile and replace it at no expense to me.

The result I want but not the answer. The wall is not bowed. It is perfectly flat. And I know this because Wally put up the wall himself. It was bare and unpainted for weeks. I know from vast exposure to it in its raw, basic form. And if it were bowed, it's his fault.

But if that is what Wally has to say to save face, I don't need to rake my fingernails down it. Let him believe he's duped me. Charlotte and I know better.

And now, we reopen the Pandora's Box of Hell's Kitchen one more time.

Homeward Bound

The rest of our time in DC is wonderful. A tour of the Ford Theater, more time in the Newseum, shopping, fabulous food, more time in the pool (sans the Toe Cheese Obsessed Cretin), a visit to the National Zoo, and an interesting encounter with an angry, aggressive homeless woman wearing a sequined ball gown who we evidently disturbed while making one last visit to the local Krispy Kreme.

We make sure we are leaving with lots of souvenirs.  The hot item at the White House Gift Shop (NOT on the premises of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, by the way) was the Presidential Bloopers CD.  Trips, falls, flubs, malapropisms of Presidents, First Ladies, candidates, Veeps...hilarious all. I knew Gerald Ford was a klutz. I had no idea how many times Nancy Reagan wiped out. I'm surprised the Secret Service let her wear heels.  But alas, it was back ordered.  The kids get t-shirts.  Hil gets a pin. Pat wants to browse the aisles of the Spy Museum shop.  Hil and I are going to do some back-to-school shopping at a cool department store nearby.

Of all the things that my son could have as a souvenir of our trip, just what do you think he chose?  No, not a Lego model of the Capitol Building. Not an FBI Jacket. 

A ski mask.  a ski mask that when pulled down over the skier's face (or that of the bank robber or ax murderer) gives the impression that he is wearing a gas mask. 

Of.
All.
Things.

I have the Spy Museum to thank for that. And the nuclear hazard bedroom door sign.

But eventually it all must come to an end.
We leave late in the afternoon on Wednesday, anxious to get home to Trinket. A few orbits of Du Pont Circle where we miss our turn onto Massachusetts Avenue a few times and we are finally on the road.  My nerves are shot and I am already missing the kids. Such a great trip leaves me with such a sense of loss when it is over.  We talk all the way home about our favorite parts of the trip.  Pat says he liked everything. I think he actually means it. He'd like our time together if we were in Beirut.  It's the kind of togetherness and freedom we all crave.

We encounter unusually heavy traffic.
We are delayed by a multi vehicle accident that snarls miles of I-95.
Rush Hour inflicts its usual dose of mayhem.

Pat is in a panic.
His high school orientation is at 7.  We will be cutting it close.
Lars has begun calling all the cell phones in the car. He is pressuring Pat to get home (as if Pat has any control over the car...).  He is getting pissy. Asking questions. When did we leave? Why so late? What was so important.  Threatening Pat - he'll miss orientation. He'll be completely lost on the first day of school. He'll be the only one who has no idea where his locker is.

He'll also miss (the rare) dinner Lars prepared. (Can of soup, bag of peas...)
He won't have time to shower before he goes, even if he gets home in time. Nice impression.
And it is coming through loud and clear that Dad is pissed.

He is doing his usual dance. The Mom-Only-Cares-About-Herself-And-Should-Have-Thought-About-You-For-Once-And-Now-Look-At-The-Trouble-You're-In routine. We know it well. It is performed any time the kids are thrilled with anything I've got going on.  It ends with Lars pissing all over it.

I am wondering why I hadn't thought of killing him in his sleep instead of asking for a divorce when I did.

The Patron Saint of All Things Traffic Related clears the path. I drive like a bat out of Hell and screech up to the curb in front of our house in record time.  Pat hops out and races to the shower. Hil and I greet the cat, and begin to lug everything into the house.

In just a few minutes, Pat has had a quick shower, a quick grilled cheese sandwich and we are bombing toward Lars' house.  Pat is visibly relieved.

My beautiful trip to DC has again come to an end.  And in the usual style. I quietly say goodbye to each child, warmly but quickly so Lars does not remark about the affection he observes.  They walk to his door and turn to wave.

Somehow I always feel like I am sending them into the lion's cage alone and unprepared.

And again, I pull away from the curb on Lars' street and try not to cry until I've reached the corner.

House Rules

The next morning we stagger from bed at the crack of dawn.  It is barely light when my feet hit the floor and I attempt to rouse my slumbering children in time to call a cab.

Hil has planned to churn out the hype and wear a stylish, hip ensemble that the First Lady would comment favorably upon. Pat has actually agreed to wear something other than basketball shorts and a snarky t-shirt for the occassion and is willingly putting on a collared shirt and khaki shorts. I have chosen a fabulous A-line dress with a scoop neckline and beautiful embroidered detail and paired it with gorgeous patent sandals in the same colors. 

This dress won the prize because of its pockets. 

Yes, pockets.

When we got our confirmation that we'd be going to the White House, we also got a list of instructions, a map, and a long list of acceptable and not acceptable items to bring with you.

Of course I can bring ID (and must bring ID, specific ID, not just any ID) and a set of keys, and cab fair.

That pretty much ends the list of acceptable items.

No camera, no makeup, no lotion, no aerosol, no sharp objects, no pointy objects, no firearms (duh!) no explosives, yadda yadda yadda not unlike the list of forbidden carryon items at the airport.  The only difference is, I am not allowed any carryon items. No purse. No fanny pack (as if I'd own one!).  If it is not in my pocket, it can't go in. 

So as we jump in our cab to head toward the Elipse, I have to jam money, hotel keys, phone (that is allowed even if it has a camera feature...I just can't use it or the Secret Service will pounce and confiscate it) and ticket info into my pockets. And as I am jamming, I am wondering what all the other well dressed women are doing about this pocket situation at the White House. Most nice dresses do not come equipped with pockets. I got lucky with this little rag. What are they all doing?

Evidently they are staying home!  There are no well dressed women visiting the White House!  Only slobs. Truly. Slobs. All of them.

It has begun to drizzle so the kids and I stand under a tree that is across the sidewalk from our place in line at the Visitors Center. Pat is mad that there is no place to sit down. Hil is just in a funk because her perfectly straightened hair is becoming a big ball of frizz. She has an acute case of the crankies. My allergies are flairing up and each time I turn my head, cover my face and sneeze, Hil dramatically wipes her spindly little arms and glares at me as though I've just sneezed on her, which I haven't. It makes me want to though, just for spite.

Ignoring my children's attitudes gives me lots of time to observe the other visitors. My little family has evidently churned out a little more hype for the event than the others. We are visiting the President's home. What would you wear?

The line is filled with t-shirts, running shoes, jeans, wife-beaters, baseball hats, sport sandals, flipflops, camisoles, short shorts, athletic jerseys and all manner of ensembles intended to be worn to wash one's car. There is not one dress, one jacket, one pair of slacks, one pair of heels, or one hair do that suggests the remotest concern for one's grooming.

Where did these people think they were going?

As the ranger comes down the path, we take our place in line. He stops at the family in front of us and says "That may be a problem." 

What? Switchblade?  Corrosive materials? Shoe bomb?  Exploding pen?

She evidently did not get the "no purse" memo.  Incredulously, she argues with the guy. All he can say, over and over, is, "The guard won't be happy about it, and that means he has to call the Secret Service."

Why couldn't she have been in line BEHIND us?

She takes all of the items from her purse and jams them in her jean pockets (Mom jeans have roomy ass-sized pockets, especially the pleated ones.) She stuffs what remains into her husband's pockets. Her son backs away, not taking part in her ridiculousness. He has no interest in being here and isn't about to carry around her lipstick and nasal spray in his basketball shorts.

"There!" she says. "What if it is empty?"  And the ranger again says, "The guard won't be happy about it, and that means he has to call the Secret Service."

The purse is a no-name, beaten up, threadbare knock off version of a second rate designer. I would have ditched it in the trash and gone shopping for an upgrade later. But no, she is going to take her chances. She is evidently very attached to this stupid purse.

As the line moves to the first check point, it splits in two. Her family goes to the left. I direct the kids to the line on the right so we're not behind them anymore.

As I clear the ID checker and head toward the full body scanning room, she is still standing there, explaining away the purse.

I wonder if she ever got in at all. Our tour was wonderful. The White House is magnificent. In my next life I want to be the White House florist.  It is a wonderful, magical tour through the most historic house of our time. 

And when it is over, it is only 9 am.  The kids and I have a whole day ahead of us to spend in DC, and yet, I could have left for home at that moment and not one of us would have said we hadn't had a fabulous time.

This Land Is My Land

It is shortly after lunch when we leave the museum.  The day is ours to plan. 

This is my favorite trip of the year for this reason.  We are unleashed on a beautiful city with loads to do and no calendar to keep.  We can go anywhere at any time. We can change plans at any minute. If something interesting distracts us, we can change direction.  We are on no one's time but our own. All three of us deciding to together what we'll do. 

Lunch at a favorite place.  A trip to the Old Post Officebuilding. Ben and Jerry's is on our minds and we go hog wild.  I wish my post office sold ice cream cones. Maybe I'd mail more stuff. 

We see a sign for the Tower Tour and decide to detour there. We ride up a dozen floors in the elevator with the mortar inspector who freaks us all out at the top when he shimmies out the window on a leash.  We can see everything from up there and take loads of pictures, including a few of the lonely Washington Monument and the Official Congressional Bells. They have their own bells? Who knew?

We walk toward the Koshland Science Center by way of the Navy Memorial. We are serenaded by some men in uniform who are getting promoted. Anchors Aweigh never sounded so good. I can't help thinking of my Dad.

The Science Center is run by an uncommonly boring yet very talkative older lady who won't leave us alone. I am toying with the idea of pretending to be deaf. Or diseased in some way. Maybe if I sneeze a lot and don't cover my face?  She is unrelenting and will not leave us alone. I am praying for a group of school children to come in. I toy with the idea of pulling the fire alarm. To get her to go away, I have to pretend to be engrossed in learning how one's brain develops and then withers and turns to mush.  And its effect on your driving abilities (which is actually hilarious). She steps away, thankfully, as I take a seat in the driving simulator to see how withered a driver I am.

We make our way to the Newseum - the museum devoted to the freedoms I hold dear.  It is the best deal in town. Kids go in for free with a paying adult (that would be moi) and the tickets are good for two days. And we love every square foot of this place. We take in what we can before closing, vowing to return the next day. The newest exhibit is about the influence of the press on elections. That's worth the price of admission. We'll be back before the place closes tomorrow.

After a long day we head to the hotel in a cab, anxious to end the day with a swim, some relaxation and plans for dinner.

I get some ice and some wine. The kids get into their suits. We head up stairs to the roof top pool looking forward to getting off of our tired feet and relaxing a bit. It is a great view.  The sun is sitting low. The city looks beautiful. The kids jump in and cool off. I sit back and take a calming sip.

Until I notice the man at the next table. While his kids swim at their own risk, his wife reads a book. And he, with nothing to occupy himself, takes to maniacally examining and picking his own feet.

Leg bent across his knee, he is bent in half with his face inches from his feet (very flexible).  He is shamelessly digging in between his toes, and picking under his nails. It's as though he's never seen his feet before, and would you look at that?  They're cruddy!  To my ever lasting horror, he is blindly flicking ---flicking whatever it is he digs out...in my direction!

I look around. Is anyone else seeing this? He should be hauled away in handcuffs for outrageous hygiene offenses against humanity!  I cover the mouth of my cup with my hand and look frantically around for another table outside of flicking range.  Nothing. I am in a near panic. I am trapped in the war zone. I am imagining a floater in my wine.  God help me and all that is holy if I come across a foreign object in a mouthful of wine. They will have to cart me off the roof in a locked box.

I stand up and am on the verge of screaming to my kids to evacuate the area. Before I can do so, and as he switches feet and begins to excavate the other foot, my kids climb out of the pool and walk toward me with their towels.  I don't need to screach just yet. Hil takes note of the situation and is visibly appalled - and mesmerized by The Picker. She starts to back away. Like a Stepford Wife, I brightly suggest we go shower and decide where to go for dinner. We can just as easily decide that in our room. We quickly gather our things ( I give everything a shake just in case..) and head to the room.

Once in the room, the kids peacefully decide who will shower first (this never happens). Hil is chatting on Facetime regaling a friend with stories of all the fun we're having. Pat is reading about the White House tour out loud to us. I am recovering from my brush with foot fungus by breathing into a paperbag and perusing the maps and dining guides. I narrow our dinner choices to two.
An hour or two later, as we head out to a quaint Italian restaurant in our neighborhood, the moon is full.  And so is my heart.

They're Everywhere, They're Everywhere!

We make our way to the Elipse, enjoying the beautiful day, taking in the sights, and discussing homelessness. Yay. I am totally perturbed that I have said too much and yet not enough. I don’t want the kids to think I judged Mr. Homeless for being homeless. (Hell, J. was practically homeless and probably would have been if he’d been less crafty about hiding his alcoholism. His mother, who had maybe one 7&7 in 1972 would have been far less tolerant of his shenanigans when he asked to move in.) I don’t want homelessness to be the theme of the trip either and keep talking about it.

Thankfully, there is enough to distract us as we make our way, zig zagging through town. Looking at beautiful hotels and museums and planning to return to this place or that some day. Eventually we are at the Elipse and sit for a moment. Pat puts a Band-aid on his heel. I put one between my big toe and my next biggest toe on each foot. We slather on sunscreen. And while we do, we see a man filling a water bottle at the fountain. He is dumping it on various parts of his body.

Hil says, “That guy must really be hot.”

I say, “He’s washing. He’s homeless.”

"Oh."

The conversation goes on. We talk about what it is like to have things and what it is like to have nothing. Not even the basic, taken-for-granteds. We are bandaging and sunscreening there in the park. What separates us from him? Choice. We have one. He does not.

We bop through town, lamenting that we can’t visit the Washington Monument and wondering when it will reopen. It was cracked in an earthquake this time last year and no one has ridden to the top since. And I am sure the people who were at the top when the quake shook the foundation are still straightjacketed and medicated. No one is even allowed on the hill. God forbid a big chunk should bonk someone on the head. It actually looks lonely.

We stop just outside the American History Museum for a few sunlit pictures. The kids by the fountain. Me with Hil. Me with Pat. I post them to Facebook and check in.

And all Hell breaks loose.

Hil thinks she looks like a dork in the picture I've posted and is mad as a hornet.

It is turning out not to be so much fun to have us both on Facebook. She spies on me. (And I on her, though that’s allowed.) She also overreacts to what I post. Like Justin Bieber is going to see what I write and decide not to ask for a date.

She’s also, I’ve noticed, listed herself as a cashier at American Eagle Outfitters (which is very cool, I’m sure, when you are in middle school). I caution her about truthfulness on social networks. I tell her that everyone is their wittiest, coolest, smartest, funniest version of themselves on Facebook, but that isn’t being false (well it is for some of my truly unhip acquaintences). But factual information needs to be shared factually (replace cashier with Babysitter for Hire in the Work section) or omitted (no one expects you to work, you are in 8th grade!) or joked about (part time movie star and astronaut). Suddenly Facebook has become a job.

How do I explain that what you state on FB is the truth to people who don't know any better (as in everyone but your mother.)  The cashier statement makes me worry that people will assume she is older. Even if the assumption is that she’s a working-papered 16 year old. It is still 3 years older than she is. And that means 17 and 18 year old boys who see her adorable profile picture will pay attention. Unless I continue to post pictures that make her look like a dork.

I redirect the conversation only by going into the museum. Had we sat one more minute we’d still be debating. We make a bee-line for our favoirte section. In two adjoining wings, there is an exhibit on the American Presidency and one on the Innaugural gowns of the First Ladies and their various accoutrements. (I snap a photo of Hil with a cardboard cut out of Mrs. Obama. I ask if it is too dorky for Facebook. She rolls her eyes.)

This is where Hil and I are in synch. We agree on everything. We love the Obama Innaugural gown. We love the Bush II china and the Clinton China. We think Mrs. Johnson wore her bathrobe to the party. That Jackie Kennedy had exquisite taste. That Nancy Reagan wore a gorgeous, enviable gown but at 59 was much too old and hangy for a one shoulder dress.

And from there, we seem to forget about homelessness and focus on the history of our country – from pop culture like the Ruby Slippers and Julia Childs’ kitchen to war history, including the hand edited Pearl Harbor speech (Roosevelt added the part about the day living in infamy himself, how cool) and the Star Spangled Banner exhibit, with the real flag that inspired the song, displayed in mood lighting to prevent further fading.

NOW we are in our groove, and getting into the right frame of mind for our Big Visit to the White House. At least for now.

The Streets of DC

Dinner is wonderful.  The atmosphere is fun. The decor and the crowd are eclectic. The food divine.  The kids and I make notes throughout the meal planning our days and attempting to cram as much activity as humanly possible into every day. We are new to this neighborhood so I am going to need to get my bearings.  I suggest we walk to the White House Tourist Center the following morning, making that area of town our first destination. That way, I'll know if we can walk there on Tuesday, or need to arrange for a cab, or figure out the Metro.  The kids are excited to be here, so they agree. Mostly because I bribed them with a trip to the Krispy Kreme we discovered on the circle and I sprang for a round of doughnuts.

We have been looking forward to the White House tour for months, though we only found out about being granted a tour a few weeks ago. It is quite a production. Writing your Congressman, exchanging information.  Background checks, travel details, identities and other particulars about each member of your party.  And then, you wait. We were notified just two short weeks ago. We are thrilled to be going, even though it sounds a little scary.  Show up carrying even one small forbidden item, as benign as a purse, and you are going to be jettisoned away by the Secret Service and questioned. And no one in your party will be admitted. No matter how disappointed.

But for now, we have to figure out how we're going to GET there, or getting in won't matter.  One must not be late. The Secret Service don't like the tardy.

In the morning, I pry my lethargic teenagers out of bed.  It is a chore but they manage to dress and groom before they stop serving the complimentary breakfast in the hotel dining room.  Good thing. I am spending  on this trip, a free bagel is a blessing.

We wander, however sluggishly into the dining room. I pour myself a second cup of coffee (I choked down the In-Room cup of coffee earlier. It may as well have been battery acid, and I am hoping for an improvement with the next round) and get some yogurt and granola.  The kids toast bagels and fill their plates with muffins and balance it all in one hand while getting bottles of OJ with their free hands. We find a table and I give everyone a hairy eyeball so they observe good table manners. 

That is, until the gentleman at the next table blows his nose. A la tornado warning. Twice.  And all bets are off. Each time the kids look at each other, they are choking back the laughter.  I decide it would not be a tragedy to take our muffins to go.

We return briefly to the room and head out. We have our map and our plans and our cameras. What we don't have are sunglasses, Band-Aids and sunscreen, all of which is still neatly packed in my overnight case.

Pat's new sneaks are giving him a blister. The sun threatens to scorch Hil's fair skin and make her burst into flame. I am blinded by the light and will surely wander into traffic with my two obedient charges in tow. We decide to splurge and get what we need at the local CVS.

And evidently, a local homeless man decided to do the same thing. 

Someone holds the door for him as he walks in.  All the staff become consumed by him.  He is no stranger to the CVS staff and they are following him and watching him and remarking to him while I roam the aisles looking for the things we need.  It is taking forever. This CVS is laid out differently than mine. I have no idea where I am going for anything. 

Hil picks a pair of $9 sunglasses. I decide to forgo a pair since she got the only cute pair and the rest are all $20.  I am not paying $20 to look like a member of the Starship Enterprise crew. Pat doesn't want any.  He wants a Band-Aid. I find a store brand variety pack that will last us the whole time we are in DC. Not necessary, but there are no mini packs of sterile bandages I've found. Bandage companies apparently assume multiple injuries. The kids and I find a spray on sunscreen we can all live with (Pat doesn't like the ones that smell too girly) and Hil chooses some gum.  And while she is deciding between two fruity fresh flavors, I hear a ruckus starting.

Mr. Homeless is apparently taking bottles of soda from the shelves and drinking them as he roams the store. He has also opened several packages of various types of snacks and is eating them as he wanders the magazine aisle (looking for something to read next to the fountain later).  The staff are encouraging him, rather, imploring him to come to the register to pay for his items at once. As if. 

At the same time, Register 2 opens and the young lady waves me over.  She patiently waits for me to find my CVS card and places all of my things in a bag.  It is twenty-three something. I reach into my wallet.

And as I do, I sense, with more than one of my very keen senses, that Mr. Homeless has decided to "pay" for his items at Register 2 also.  He has made his way to the register and is standing uncomfortably close to me.

I lean into the counter to gain another half inch of distance. I can hear him breathing. I am afraid to breathe.  I am afraid to take out my wallet.  I am afraid of a lot of things, mostly having to do with germs and having recently showered. I am afraid I am standing in the imaginary Pig Pen fog he's emanating. 

It seems to take forever, but I finish my transaction and scoot sharply to the left without stepping away from the counter. I am in no mood to have to burn my clothes today.  The kids have been waiting.

And observing.

Pat asks what was wrong with the guy.  I tell him he lives on the streets. He asks if he is wearing a wig. I tell him that no, that was his hair, and that he'd not had a hair cut in quite a long time. When you are homeless, you not only do not have a home, you don't have a lot of other things either, like a car, or food, or a toothbrush or a change of clothes.  Just for starters.

Hil says that when I was paying the cashier, I looked like I smelled something bad. 

I acknowledge that I had. She asks what it smelled like.  "Well, sweetie, not good. It smelled like BO, and urine, and dirty hair, and bad breath, and feet, and poop, and disease."

Both of them let out a long, under the breath, "Eeeeeewwww."  Hil says if she were in charge, no one would be homeless, there would be places they could go to get food and a bath and something to eat and some new clothes.

I explain that there are those places, but sometimes the people who are homeless have other problems that make them not want to go to them.

"What about their families or friends?" 

I tell her that some of those problems are very severe and friends and families who may have tried to help once may have given up. 

What an educational morning!  We haven't been to a single Smithsonian or even seen a glimpse of a monument and my kids have already had the civics lesson of a lifetime. 

And Away We Go

It is the first time in almost two years that Scott and I will not see each other on the weekend.  Thank God I will have a lot to keep me busy. 

Mowing the lawn which has grown over my shoes and tickles my spindly little ankles.
Weeding the planted areas which look like they were copied from 1313 Mockingbird Lane.
Cutting and burning the two ton pile of branches I chopped from the hedges (and inadvertently smoking out my neighbors.)
Buying Pat a decent shirt to wear to the White House and a few things for school that aren't all black and don't have snarky Family Guy or Beavis and Butthead cartoons on them.
Packing clothes that go from museum to restaurant to Mall. Times three.
Packing shoes that look great with the clothes I've packed and won't leave my feet blistered and bleeding if we walk for miles.
Packing snacks for the bottomless pit teenagers who swear they will starve to death between meals.
Packing things to do in the hotel room at night - cards, books, magazines - in case the neighborhood is not kid friendly.
Planning to leave the cat by herself - food, water, toys, clean litter box. I may as well leave the TV on and rent a movie for her, too.

Shortly after noon, the kids and I kiss the kitty goodbye, pile our stuff into the car, turn on the iPhone GPS and head out.  The traffic is heavy for the duration of he ride. Heavy rain makes for white knuckle driving.  The last few miles into and through our Du Pont Circle neighborhood to the new hotel we're trying is like a corn maze.  I am in my usual I-Don't-Know-Where-I'm-Going panic by the time we arrive.

We check in. We unpack.  I familiarize myself with the safe and stow the valuables. The kids and I head out into the neighborhood to check out our surroundings.

Beautiful homes. Quaint boutiques and restaurants.  Lively pubs and coffee shops.  I want to move here. I could walk around for hours. I'd probably put a downpayment on something if I had another hour or so.

But the kids are a little whipped and after a jaunt around a few blocks and we decide to head back to the hotel for a little relaxation before we go out for dinner. We have chosen a cute brick oven pizza place for later.  In the meantime, I foresee a glass of wine for me, a lemonade and a snack for the kids.  A pile of tourist brochures for me, and a little TV for the kids.

We get to the room and I send the kids out with the ice bucket in search of the elusive ice machine. I kick off my shoes. I call Scott.  I check Facebook. There is a knock at the door.

It is the housekeeper.

I am in a flop sweat.  My kids have been out of my sight for 4 minutes. What could they have done already?

She's holding something up.  "Found deez on floor.  Day yours?"

I look at what she's holding in her rubber gloved hands.  To my everlasting horror, I realize what it is.

It is my pack of birth control pills.

I want to croak. First I clog the toilet in Key West. Now I leave my birth control lying around the hotel in a strange city. 

My first thought is to check out and find another hotel. Check in under an assumed name.

Instead I take the pills from her and thank her profusely.  I toy with the idea of saying something like, "Oh, thanks. These are my friend's pills. She's always dropping something. Pills, condoms, you know." She smiles and pushes her vacuum down the hall dragging the chord behind her.

As I turn away and shut the door I make a note to grossly overtip her. Hush money. God only knows what the rest of the trip will bring.

Miles To Go Before I Sleep

The next morning, after breakfast, where we rehash and relive some of the funnier moments of the weekend, we begin our goodbyes.

I am off to Scott's to spend what remains of the weekend with him.  I'd forfeited some much treasured time, and want to see him. Feel him. Hold him. Remember that he's real. Remind him that we're real.  I wonder if he has any of the insecurities that Jill's husband has. I want him to know he can dismiss them.  Girl's weekend is about the girls. And girls need girls in spite of all the other gifts they have in their lives.

Scott and I enjoy the rest of the weekend. A long motorcycle ride. Time together. Talking. Cooking. Planning.

Work the next day is excruciatingly dull by comparison to the weekend, but two of my more painful colleagues are on vacation, one for the second week in a row, and I am dealing with less interference than usual.  Good thing. I have the patience of a sand flea.

The weekend is on its way and I have a full schedule.  The kids and I are off to DC for a few days beginning on Sunday and I have a lot to accomplish between now and then. 

But first, I must at least acknowledge my mother's birthday.  I am not sure exactly what is appropriate to do when you are not speaking. My kids are away with their father and can't sign a card. I refuse to spend money on a gift that is not sent from my heart.  At the last minute I buy a card that is sort of cute and sassy and has pink cowboy boots on it. I write something cheerful and benign about celebrating her birthday in style. 

It is indeed the Devil's bargain. I am damned no matter what I do. Damned if I do nothing.  Damned no matter what the gesture, large or small. Mom  is essentially dead to me and I to her. But there is the not inconsequential issue of the grandchildren.  They have a tenuous relationship with her, of her own making, but I do not necessarily relish perpetuating my own issues with my mother through them. If they turn around and hate me when they are in their 40s I suppose I can't avoid that, but I don't want to teach them that it is okay to write me off now when they disagree with me about sleepovers or skirt length or T-shirt messages or the amount of time spent on XBox Live.  Let's save the write off for the big arguments. It took me decades to finally push back at my mother. And she went willingly across the divide never to completely turn back.  Like it was just waiting to happen. I don't want to suggest to my kids that this is the way conflicts are handled from the start.

I write out the card and sign all of our names. I close with the words, "Happy Birthday, Love, Liza, Pat and Hil and Trinket."  Keeping it light. Keeping it superficial. I am sure she got the message.

As luck would have it, I don't get it into the mail in time to arrive on her birthday or before. It will arrive a day late. In that time she will have made at least a half dozen calls to people to chat about what a hateful, spiteful child I've become. What a horrible example I've set. How selfish and self-centered I've become.  And she'll have told all her Bridge friends, all of whom will be so glad not to be arguing politics with her.

And she'll have refrained from mentioning it to Charlotte. Because mentioning it to Charlotte will be as though she'd whispered it in my ear. And God forbid she should appear to care. 

I chat with Charlotte a day or so later. I confess about the late mailing of the not terribly warm and fuzzy card. She could not care less. She does tell me though that she told Mom about J. having passed away.  Mom's comments were limited to "Really?  How about that."  But nothing compelled her to call me, to see if I were feeling okay with it. Much like nothing compelled me to call her and tell her about it.  Not that my world had been rocked by loss, just that it is not every day that someone you once shared your life with dies so young, and after so much has happened. A normal mother would want to be sure that that is the case and not much more. But not my mother. It was the perfect excuse to call. For both of us. And neither one seized the opportunity.  And the chasm inches a little wider apart.

But there is no time to dwell on Mom or her multitude of shortcomings. I have got to get my game on.  Pat and Hil and I will be taking DC by storm, and I have a home and yard to maintain before then.

I rev up my lawn mower and put on my gardening clogs. Mama's got a yard to keep. 

Put On The Dress, The Party Will Materialize

The Girls Weekend tradition is more than twenty years old and it amazes me how we have all changed over the years.

We have been together all these years as we've all gotten married, had children, changed jobs, dealt with illness, aging parents, deaths among our dearest loved ones. And some of us have divorced, married again, and in some cases, divorced again. 

We have suffered each others battle wounds and sung each others songs of joy for over two decades.  Friend like these are rare gems.  There is an easiness that can't be replaced or replicated.  We are like a pair of old shoes. Lots of old shoes. Old, but fabulous, sexy kitten-heeled old shoes that make our legs look great.

The next day we shop. We eat. We walk on the beach. We settle into a groove with the live music, our favorite waitress, the warmth of the sun, the beer with the lime.

Saturday night is for showering and primping and making a proper appearance. We are going to board the Drunk Bus and head up town to a club that we've gone to every year, which has undergone as many transformations as we have. It is always a memorable night.

But as we peel off and dress and primp in small groups, the plan takes on a life of its own.  The newly polished and transformed head out to happy hour to join the No Shower Crowd who will be primping later.  We bump into old friends and acquaintances.  We order lots of drinks. As people come and go from the table to get ready for the night, the band comes on. Kate, who has declared that she is not going out at all has returned to the bar having morphed into a sex goddess in a matter of 30 minutes. 

Kate is beckoned to the dance floor by a tall gangly overly confident man who watched her make her grand entrance.  She is about to refuse when I get up and push her toward the dance floor and commit to going there with her.  It is as though someone has plugged her in. She is in rare form. A dancing queen. A one woman show.  I come as close as I ever have to peeing my pants in public when she wildly flails and smacks someone who has joined our little circle of dancing fools. (A crowd has begun to form.)  She is oblivious even as he clutches his newly blackened eye and tries to retrieve his baseball hat to place back on his balding head. 

It is a night like so many before it. the best laid plans give way to the party that develops around us. If we just stay put, the party will start. Kate has gotten the party started. There is no turning back. We won't board the Drunk Bus. Those people should turn around and come to us!

The band is great, the crowd is worth watching.  We bump into friends old and new and laugh and tell old stories.  We toast. We joke. We take delight in people watching. It is what the weekend is supposed to be. 

The older woman pole dancing with the bar stool who is wildly gyrating and dipping and nearly wiping out. I think I recognize the dance moves from an Aerosmith video.  She's clearly come out to play. And expose her boobs evidently, as the girls make a cameo appearance over and over. She is like a train wreck. I can't stop watching though I know a disaster is imminent. Joy and I nearly choke when her hoo-hah nearly comes out to dance.  She apparently won't stop until she gets someone to pay attention.
Some time later, as I sit at the stripper pole/bar stool talking to Penny, she comes back to dance. Undeterred by the fact that the bar stool is occupied.

The couple that is flirting with each other as they dance. Nothing unusual there.  But she's wearing a long dress that is interfering with her dancing so she keeps hiking it up. She has no idea that everyone is riveted as she repeatedly yet inadvertently flashes her crotch. And the boyfriend's not telling.

What is with all the nudity?  Is it Take Your Exhibitionist Out Dancing Night?

The woman we dub the Energizer Bunny, who may have been the drunk woman I grabbed by the bra last year when she got a little too close. She is moving across and around the dance floor like it is covered in hot coals. It is like watching a pinball.  I am wondering where the dutiful husband is and when he'll drag her home. In the mean time she is high comedy to watch banging into people who have as much appreciation for her as I did last year. Hello, AA?

Wildly dancing Asian midget is back. I give her a wide berth.

We meet someone we call Prince Harry who is looking for friends since he's traveled to this place with three married couples in pursuit of fun and the three couples are all fighting so he'll have to find his own fun. He's come to the right corner of the bar.

And as one more Girls Weekend comes to a close, and the lights come on and the last drink is poured, we are all once again, raising our fruity shots of God Knows What in honor of each other, our enduring friendship, our unique understanding of each other. We forgive each other's sins, cheer each other to victory, hold each other's hearts, keep each other's deepest secrets. 

Surely it is a weekend dominated by fun and frivolity. But for each of us, it is also a reaffirming experience. And I am reminded of my high school year book quote, and the people for whom I'd written it, one of whom was Scott.  It applies in a profound measure to these ladies, who know my heart better than I know it myself:

"To know someone here or there with whom you can feel there is understanding in spite of distances or thoughts expressed -- That can make life a garden."  - Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

What A Girl Needs

There are few things more fun than a gaggle of girls out for some girl talk and cocktails.

Before long, we’ve settled into our groove, figured out the sleeping arrangements, decided on a No Shower Happy Hour and finished the case of beer.

We pile into our adjoining rooms, and the clothes, shoes and hair products begin to fly. We are shzshzing. We are primping. We are modeling outfits, deciding on shoes, selecting jewlery. Something borrowed. Something else borrowed. The swapping and cocktailing and complimenting goes on for at least an hour. We may as well have showered. But we dare not.

There is something liberating about going out looking fabulous with your fabulous friends knowing you have not exactly played by the rules of traditional good grooming. I know not why.

We choose the tried and true bar across the street from the hotel. Our expectations are never high for the first night. That is probably why it almost always turns out to be a barn burner.

We start in the newly refurbished upstairs bar. Much more swanky than most beach bars, and certainly an improvement on the décor of the year before, which involved cement flooring and metal tables.

We pick a prominent curved sofa on the deck and perch there. We order drinks, (like anyone needs one) and wait for the fun to begin. It always does.

We are noticeable, all of us together, so people do as they typically do.

Old men in bowling shirts and black socks ask what they did to deserve a seat next to the Miss America contestants.

Creepy undatable types with bad hair cuts sit down like they belong with us, and think it is hilarious that their dork friends are taking pictures. It is like Napolean Dynamite infiltrated the group.

Older women who are overdressed (and trying too hard) scorn us. They tsk tsk but secretly want to be us. We are confident of that. We secretly relish knowing that we had made half the effort to get here and don't look like hags.

Kate has the hiccups. Priscilla thinks she’s come down with Tourettes. I relate a story about a YouTube video featuring Tourettes Karaoke and proceed to sing a sappy Chicago song, “If you leave me now…ssssssss...bullshit! bullshit!...ssssssss…Dickhead!...ssssss.”

And then others chime in with their own versions of Tourettes Karaoke and paving our way to Hell. We are all in tears. And making a nuisance of ourselves. We’ve even scared Napolean away. We decide to take our party indoors and downstairs to the other bar where we might be appreciated.

 It is quite a party there even before we arrive.

Great music from a superb band. Much dancing.

Lots of great people watching. Many nicknames bestowed on unsuspecting people watchees.

Priscilla finds an interesting man to talk to who is in her age bracket and has an entertaining friend who isn’t too big a pain in the ass and wants to sing along with us and looks like Jerry Seinfeld. We call him Jerry. I still don’t know what his name is.

I am elbowed into a bar stool by a wildly flailing Asian midget woman who has chosen to dance in the bar and not on the dance floor.  Her friends apologize for her. I forgive her. They seem to be used to apologizing for her. This must not be her first body check at a bar.

A Bachelor party arrives and tries to take us with them on their traveling road show. 

Before we know it, the lights are on, and last call has been served. We giggle our way back to the hotel and into our respective beds. Another Girls Weekend has begun and there is no break from tradition. We have come home with stories yet again.

What A Girl Wants

My weekend with Scott is wonderful. The weather is good, the beach is fabulous, the jetskiing exilarating. We BBQ, we cocktail, we relax.


I try to make the weekend last. For all the togetherness we’ve had over the past few weeks, we are headed for a drought.

Next weekend is Girls Weekend. The much anticipated, highly ballyhooed, coveted Girls Weekend.

Last year I spent the Thursday night before with Scott. Lars had the kids for some reason and I took the opportunity to get my Scott fix before departing for the weekend. He got up and went to work. I got up, wrote my blog, got my toes done and was poolside by noon without lifting a finger.

This year I can’t do that. Pat is taking in a ballgame with Charlotte to celebrate his birthday and Hil and I have some girl time to squeeze in. Pedis. Eyebrow waxing. The usual. So there is going to be a longer than usual wait before I see Scott again, even if I do drive to his house on Sunday instead of staying one more night.

But the next day, at about mid-day, I put the bags I packed weeks ago with the oh-so-carefully planned outfits and a few plan B selections into the car, put on the sunglasses and make the rounds.

To the bank to get a pile of cash. To the liquor store for wine. To the CVS for another bottle of that anti-frizz potion. Then back to the house to get the cat settled, the kids ready. They are leaving on a week’s vacation with Lars today and I will be on the road that same minute. The cat tugs at my heart strings. It is not unlike when I used to drop the kids at day care. I have absolutely no idea why.

By 1 pm, I am poolside with my lady friends and we are catching up on all the news unfit to print:

Jill getting the cold shoulder from her husband because he hates the idea of what he thinks might go on at Girls Weekend, based on what he knows about Guys Weekend, but won’t admit that that is why he’s mad, and has to nitpick about other inconsequential things. (Rule number one: Gentlemen, don’t send your ladies to Girls Weekend mad at you. Nothing good ever happens. For anyone.)

Priscilla’s dejected spouse that she is divorcing who sees fit to dial everyone they jointly know and trash talk her so they’ll side with him. Nice plan. If you are five years old. So far it’s backfiring and everyone thinks he’s a kook. But she is a little worried about what their children think. (Rule number two: Never trash talk your spouse to your children. They are not getting the divorce. And Rule Number three: If you must trash talk your spouse for your own sanity, start a blog under an assumed name. )

Joy’s new job, again, since last year, and how she is handling sending her first born off to college in two weeks. She is handling it with prayers and cocktails.

My issues with work colleagues not liking the way I dress, when they appear to have made their last shopping excursions during the Carter Administration. And of course my mother falling and breaking her face. And Liza commically setting her hair on fire with her birthday cake. And how I am blissfully happy (still) with Scott but have no experience with jealousy and do not quite know what to do when the idiot waitress (for example) flirts with him at our local pub while I am sitting next to him. I mean, short of raking my fingernails down her face.

Within the hour, our favorite waitress has offered us our first cocktail and we simply could never hurt her feelings by refusing. Taking the “it’s 5 o’clock somewhere” approach, we order our first round. And only then does Kate make her first appearance.

I help her retrieve her 30 pack of beer on ice from her car.

The games, or shall we say, the “dames” have begun.